


Waiting for Blast Off

by ultharkitty



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-29
Updated: 2011-12-29
Packaged: 2017-10-28 11:12:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/307275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultharkitty/pseuds/ultharkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vortex is in prison (again), and Optimus comes to talk to him.</p><p>Contains: mention of slash, mention of interfacing, suggestive language.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waiting for Blast Off

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aniay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aniay/gifts).



Vortex was bored.

There were still two breems until Blast Off was scheduled to blow a hole in the side of the Ark, and he’d run out of things to do.

Taunt Bumblebee: check. Make Perceptor think there was something stuck to his aft: check. Convince Groove that he’d be willing to defect for a tanker of good energon and an upgrade to rotor swords: check. Teach Sludge pro-Decepticon propagandist slogans: check, although he still wasn’t sure how he’d managed that one.

It’d help if they sent some more Autobots for him to play with, but the enemy seemed to think that prison was for punishment and rehabilitation, not entertainment. Which was a shame, because in any regular gaol – at least the ones back on Cybertron – there had always been something fun to do, and someone weaker than him to do it to.

Not that he’d ever been locked up for long, not until the Detention Centre. And there was another reason he needed a bit of distraction. All this sitting around gave him far too much thinking time.

One and three quarter breems to go.

He lay on the bunk, arms outstretched in front of him, his tail rotors turning slowly. If it wasn’t for his imminent escape, he’d consider making a racket just to get some attention.

As it turned out, however, he didn’t need to, because the brig door opened, and the Prime walked in.

“I had my doubts,” Optimus said. “When Megatron claimed to have deactivated you.” He approached the bars, steadfast and completely unafraid.

“Can’t get rid of me,” Vortex replied. Not until Blast Off fired that shot, anyway. “You do realise you loom, don’t you? I wonder if your troops find it intimidating. I think it’s kinda hot.”

The Prime gave him a look, those expressive blue eyes narrowed a little in bemusement. This didn’t appear to have been what he expected. “I heard you spoke with Groove,” he said.

Vortex nodded and stretched out; he could see where this was headed. One and a quarter breems to go. “Sure did. Slag, you’re tall. Do you ever stand on the minibots? I mean by accident, ‘cause it’s gotta be hard to see them from all the way up there.”

“No,” Optimus responded.

Vortex grinned; so the Prime would avoid responding to a derogatory comment, but he was too polite to ignore a direct question. “What about the humans?” he pushed.

“No. I have never stood on any human.”

“This one time,” Vortex said, as though it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever heard, “Brawl landed on a rhino.”

This seemed to stump him. The Prime’s optics narrowed further, but he gave no other outward indication of his temperament. Aside from not speaking.

“It went splat,” Vortex added, happily. “You’re the strong, silent type, aren’t you? I like that in a mech.” He liked the nervous talkative type far more, but there was certainly something to be said for the Prime’s personality type. Particularly in interrogations, where that kind of challenge could keep him amused for weeks.

“You were only messing with Groove,” the Prime continued. “I know that. But consider your situation.”

Vortex considered it. One breem, fifty astroseconds to freedom; the future looked great. “You let me play with those antennae of yours and I’ll consider anything you want me to,” he said.

“I can’t allow that,” the Prime replied. His optics lost focus for a fraction of an astrosecond, a minute shift in the direction of his gaze. Vortex passed the data through his targeting subroutines, calculating the trajectory.

Frag, the Prime was looking at his rotors.

Never one to waste an opportunity, Vortex revved his engine and made the blades shudder. Yep, there it was again, that momentary glance that he didn’t seem to be able to control. Very interesting.

“What you have to ask yourself is this,” Optimus said, so calm and collected as though he hadn’t been looking at the rotors at all. “Do you want to spend the rest of your long existence in prison?”

Vortex pretended to think about it, running a finger along the leading edge of one of his tail rotors. He retracted his mask, treating the Prime to an inviting smile. One breem left, long enough for a quick frag against the cell wall, and with any luck he could hold the Prime still for long enough for Blast Off’s lasers to do some damage. He just had to find a way, and quick, to get the Prime to make a move.

“Course not,” he said. “But what you have to ask yourself is this: what do _you_ want?”

“Peace,” the Prime said quickly, as though he was thinking of something else. “I want peace. An end to the war. I want freedom for all of us.”

“Because freedom’s the right of all sentient beings?”

“Yes.”

Vortex grinned. If the Prime hadn't glanced at his rotors again, he would have made a crack about keeping the Dinobots in a cupboard when they were fresh out of the lab. But he didn't have time for that. Instead, he got to his feet and leaned against the wall by the bars, his rotors jouncing. “How about the freedom to take what you want when it’s offered to you?” he said.

The Prime didn’t even pause. “That would be most unwise.”

“Shame,” Vortex commented. “Rotaries are so rare nowadays. And you know what? I’ve always wanted to know what your tires feel like. I bet they’re all firm and bouncy.” He snaked a hand between the glowing bars, fingers straining towards that shiny red armour. “Would you let me touch them if I defect?”

This time, the only discernable reaction was the flicker of his optics. “That won’t work on me,” he said.

“Ah well,” Vortex pulled back. A quarter breem to go, hardly time for a grope any more, let alone a quick bang.

“We can offer you treatment,” the Prime said, keeping that same level tone. “Constructive reprogramming, and rehabilitation. If you give us the intel we need to end the war.”

“Treatment?” Vortex repeated.

The Prime nodded slowly.

Grinning wider, Vortex shook his head. His internal chronometer counted down the astroseconds – twenty, nineteen… “I don’t need _treatment_ ,” he said. “Look at yourself. You’ve got restrictive morality and double standards coming out your exhaust.” He laughed, turning his back to the Prime and giving his rotors another enticing flick. “I’m not the one who’s mad.”

“We can help you.” Optimus urged. “We can-” But he didn’t get the chance to finish.

The cell’s back wall turned white, then the briefest flash of incandescent violet as the heat of Blast Off’s lasers broke through the hull. The floor shook, bringing the Prime to his knees, but Vortex had already transformed.

He launched himself through the gap, his every sensor screaming, overheat warnings flashing across his HUD. Powering up his auxiliary engines, he headed for the glittering sky, where the shuttle waited to ferry him back to HQ.


End file.
